Don't Tell Me You're Fine
by brynerose
Summary: Alternate ending/coda to "Hello, Cruel World," in which Sam's reaction to being played by Halucifer foreshadows the struggles to come.  No spoilers beyond episode in question.  Two-shot.  Rated for serious theme.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: This isn't meant to blend fully into canon; I was just plagued with this what-if idea, and decided to write it out. ^-^**

Sam was full-out panicking now.

Okay, this was beyond freak out; seeing someone who wasn't actually there? He could deal with that. He could deal with the moments of reliving memories, even if they were of Hell. Hell, he could rationalize through whatever Lucifer did to Bobby and Dean, because it never fazed them. That alone reminded him what was real and what wasn't. But a complete mindfuck, having him totally convinced he was going somewhere with Dean? He had no way of telling the difference, no way of control…

"You wanna point that gun at someone useful? Try your face," Lucifer taunted. "Wanna know the truth? Wanna skip to the last page of the book? You know where to aim, cowboy." He put two fingers under his chin, and made the motion and sound effect of pulling the trigger.

_No control, no control, no control._

"_It ends when you can't take it anymore, bunk buddy."_

Sam didn't want to. After everything that had happened, everything they had survived, he didn't want to end it all. Sure, the world seemed to want to end, and no matter how many baddies he and Dean took down, there was always someone else, someone tougher. What chance did they really have? He pondered the ivory-handled gun in his hand.

Lucifer smiled.

"Sam?" a familiar voice echoed in the huge emptiness of the warehouse.

Dean was already on edge once he discovered Sam had flown the coop. What could his brother possibly have gotten into? Thoughts of potential tortures Lucifer might be inflicting on Sam made it difficult to drive. But he needed to focus now more than ever. The GPS on Sam's phone told him where to go.

He spotted the outline of the Impala sitting outside a crumbling warehouse. _Thank God my baby's safe, at least. Now for Sam…_ Only barely checking his surroundings, Dean bolted for the nearest door.

The sight that met him nearly ripped his heart from his chest. Sam was alone in the warehouse, scared and lost-looking. He kept shifting his gaze from the gun in his hand to a blank space in front of him. Dean had never seen his little brother act like this. "Sam?"

Sam didn't react, at least not to Dean. Whatever scene played in his vision was beyond distressing. Dean might as well have been the nearest support beam. Slowly, he inched his way across the open concrete space, determined to get through to Sam without spooking him.

That's when Sam raised the gun to his own chin.

"_Nooooo!_"

Dean launched himself at Sam, grabbing his gargantuan little brother's wrists and pulling as the shot rang out. They tumbled to the cold, wet floor in a heap. "_Sammy!_"

The first thing he registered was the rise and fall of Sam's chest underneath him. The bullet missed its target. He was alive. However, a vicious track had been dug along the side of his face. Blood oozed liberally from it, and the surrounding area was already swelling. Aside from breathing, Sam didn't move.

"Damnit, stop trying to tell me you're fine!" Dean shouted at no one in particular. Sam's phone buzzed in his pocket—Bobby. "We got a problem, Bobby."

"Dean?"

"Yeah, Sam led me on a little chase. We're at a warehouse maybe fifteen out from the yard. Whatever Lucifer said to him, it was bad enough that he tried to shoot himself."

"_He did what?_" squawked Bobby. Dean had to hold the phone away, his ear ringing.

"I stopped him, and that's what counts. But he's gotta have some fractured bones in his face; I need to get him to a hospital."

"Well, go anywhere but Sioux Falls General. The sheriff was right. The mess I just spent twenty minutes digging through is more than enough evidence where our slippery little friends are congregating. There's a small private place about half an hour down the highway. I've got and old friend there who helps hunters."

"Thanks, Bobby. Meet us there as soon as you can. We'll work out our next steps once Sammy's taken care of," Dean told him. They hung up, and Dean sized up the task of hauling his brother to the car. First he needed to get some kind of bandage on that head wound, if the little puddle of blood was anything to go by. Strips from Sam's flannel shirt would do. Once the kid (and he still thought of Sam as a kid sometimes) resembled a bloody hippie, Dean pulled him into a sort of half-fireman's carry, the exception being that Sam was so heavily muscled, and his long legs brushed the floor. _I still don't get how in the world he ended up bigger than me…_

The distance to the Impala seemed awfully far from this vantage point. He wished Sam would wake up, though he doubted that would happen any time soon with the potential damage from attempting suicide. But he made it—he forced himself to make it. And before he could really register his surroundings again, they were on the road to the clinic place Bobby directed them to.

A night nurse met them at the emergency door. Soaked in sweat and panting, Dean gave her a revised version of Sam's actions. Hey, Halucifer aside, he wasn't really lying. The kind woman fetched a gurney on which to take Sam away, and directed Dean right into an observation room to wait.

He received periodic updates: the long gash should heal without trouble, held together with butterfly bandages and gauze. Head injuries just had a penchant for bleeding a lot. The scans revealed a good chunk taken out of Sam's cheekbone, along with fractures to it and the orbital bone above. By some miracle, he didn't get any shrapnel in his eye or temple. The MRI came back clear. No adverse effect on the brain.

Dean made a quick run to the vending machine after the last update. At that point he was told Sam would be done in about ten minutes. As he passed the desk, however, a grainy, familiar sound caught his attention. Police radio.

"_Copy that, officers and Engines 2 and 5 en route to alarm at 13275 S 700 E…"_

He stopped dead in his tracks for the second time that night. A fire alarm, to Bobby's address! His phone was in his hand, dialing Bobby's number. It rang…and rang…and rang. _"This is Bobby Singer's direct hotline. You should NOT have this number…"_

"Shit!" He kept trying all the way back to Sam's room. Voicemail. Voicemail. Voicemail. "Don't do this to us, Bobby, please!" Dean's knees gave out as soon as he reached the armchair in the room. Cas, Sam, now Bobby…how many people could he lose in so short a time?

The nurse and a woman in a lab coat arrived with Sam, who was out cold on the rolling bed. He appeared to be fully clothed except for his shoes, which were stowed underneath. The cheek that was visible had a couple gauze patches over the worst of the bullet wound (one eye was completely obscured), while the rest was broken up by little white strips. It didn't look so bad now that it was clean.

"Are you doing okay?" asked the doctor lady. She was good looking for being middle-aged, short, dark hair framing her ivory face. In fact, she could almost be Lisa's twin. Dean gave his head a good shake. He didn't need to think about more people he'd lost…

"Just tired. How is he?"

She let the nurse leave. "You said he was your brother? He shouldn't have any problems physically, although the affected side of his face will be quite colorful for awhile. The damage was remarkably minimal, thanks to your efforts. What I want to talk to you about is the psychological side of this. Do you have any idea why your brother would attempt suicide?"

"He's…he's been having a hard time. We hit a bit of a rough patch with work, and lost a good friend on top of that," Dean answered reluctantly. Friend of Bobby's or not, he did not, under any circumstances, want to try explaining Sam's ongoing dance with Hell.

"I can imagine. You know, I could pick you out as hunters as soon as you walked in. That's why I had Denise leave before saying anything." She gave him a warm, gentle smile.

"Bobby said you could help, yeah. But I don't get it! Sam's never been close to suicidal in his life!"

The doctor pulled a stool on wheels next to Dean's chair. "Everyone has their breaking point. When it comes to hunters, I'm surprised we don't see more cases like this. What matters is you were able to stop him. I can recommend you to some good friends who can help Sam sort through what's going on in his head."

_I'm not sure anyone could help Sam sort his head out. He's a bit of unique case…_ Dean bit his lip. "So how long do you think he'll have to be here?"

"I want to keep him under observation at least into tomorrow. Ideally, he would stay until we were sure he was no longer a threat to himself. Unfortunately, I know that doesn't go over well with hunters," she told him.

"Yeah, we're kinda trying to stay ahead of someone."

"Tell you what—we'll start by waiting for Sam to wake up, and see where he is at that point. Then we'll go from there. Deal?"

"Deal." With the worst over for the moment, Dean wanted desperately to get some sleep. The doctor took the hint, heading for the door. Only it opened before she could reach it.

There stood Bobby, soot-covered, huffing like a walrus, eyes about to bug out of his head. Both Dean and the doctor simply gaped.

"You—your house—the dispatch—" sputtered Dean.

"Are you okay?" asked the doctor.

"Been better," growled the disheveled man. A pointed look from his doctor friend sent him to the sink in the corner first. "How's Sam?"

"Gonna live. Although we'll see, once I get a chance to ask him what the hell he was doing," Dean muttered darkly. He glanced over the patchwork that was Sam's face again. Bobby finally approached, resting a knotted hand on Dean's shoulder.

"Easy, there. He hasn't exactly had a walk in the park lately."

The doctor looked back and forth between their faces. "Well, I've got rounds to make. My pager's on the info card. If Sam wakes up needing pain meds, give me a buzz." She quietly let herself out.

Bobby took a deep, shuddering breath. "Carol puts up with way more than she has to, dealing with us hunters."

"Your turn—the police radio broadcasted a fire at your house. What happened?" demanded Dean.

"Slimy bastards figured out from Cas's memories where we were hiding out," Bobby sighed. "I got out using the same escape Sam used when he tried to keep from getting his soul back. Damn lucky I heard the gas leak in time, too. I never would have made it to the first stack of cars for cover. So what's the deal with Sam trying to kill himself?"

"Won't know for sure until he wakes up. Best I could tell was he was still hallucinating. How long can he take this, really? How long could anyone take this?"

"You gotta be there for him, son. Remind him that he has reasons to live, real ones. Be his big brother."

The two of them gazed at Sam, who was peacefully asleep.


	2. Chapter 2

Sam wasn't entirely sure what woke him up. He registered two prominent sensations at once—sunlight streaking right along the horizon and into his face, and the puffy yet sharp pain overtaking his right cheek and eye. "Ugnnnn…"

His good eye opened blearily to find himself in a clean, white room. Fluffy pillows surrounded him, contained by molded plastic guardrails. A hospital. Damnit, he was in a hospital! However, the pain was starting to blur out his concentration, so he fumbled for the nurse button he knew would be close. After a minute or so, an attractive young woman slipped in.

"Pain," rasped Sam, waving a hand in the direction of his throbbing face. Why could he only see out of one eye?

The nurse nodded. "I'll be right back with something," she whispered.

"An' what time is it?"

"About 7:15 in the morning. You've only been here overnight." She waited a moment to see if he had any more questions, then left.

Sam rolled his head to the other side of the pillow. Semi-cracked blinds were responsible for the intrusive light, though already the angle of the sun had shifted to a less harsh angle through the strips of plastic. And to either side, like half-melted gargoyles, Dean and Bobby slumped in chairs, both deep asleep. So that's why the chick had been so quiet.

The nurse crept back in with a syringe. "This'll work faster than pills." She swabbed Sam's elbow with a cold alcohol pad, and injected the liquid relief. Sam's tense body relaxed almost immediately. The pain drained out of his face.

"Thanks."

"Sure thing. Ring if you need anything else."

The nurse left again. Sam felt his consciousness slipping, but this time it was soothing, not distracting. He vaguely recalled that being in a hospital was bad for a couple different reasons. Not that he was bothered by them right now. It just felt good to sleep…

When he was next aware, the room felt distinctly emptier. This time, his one-eyed vision behaved when he asked it to. His head felt less out of sorts in general, too.

Dean and Bobby were gone.

Sam pushed himself into a sitting position, or as close to one as he could in a reclined bed. Lingering effects of the morphine dose made themselves known as soon as he started moving. He took stock of his position; no IV or any other hookup was a good sign. The fact that he was hungry was another nod in the right direction. Moving slowly and carefully, Sam tried getting out of bed.

If not for his distinctive surroundings, he might have thought this was the tail end of a wild bender. He could see, walk…just not entirely straight. He still wore his clothes from the previous day, although his feet were now bare. But he made it to the bathroom without serious incident, and there, he could assess the rest of the situation.

The sight of the bandages and bruising (thus the impediment with his right eye) shocked him even as the memories flooded back. Lucifer had been pushing him to try to shoot himself. Sam remembered the panic of finding out how little control he had. The hopelessness at getting rid of the visions, of their overall situation. And then he'd heard the voice—it was Dean's voice, but Sam couldn't seem to find him—he felt like he lost control of his body. Falling. Pain. Everything going black.

He studied the wicked line down the right side of his face. What was visible, anyway. Had he actually tried to do it? What must Dean have thought, barging in on such a scene? Dean wouldn't have been able to see or hear Lucifer. He wouldn't know the whole context. What he saw was Sam about to do the unthinkable…

A door opened and closed. "Sam? Sammy?"

"In here," he called hoarsely. The sudden noise had made him jump, throwing his head into a dizzy spell. The sink held him up. Dean busted through the not-quite-shut door.

"What the hell, dude? You can't just get up and disappear like that!" With more strength than Sam was able to fight, Dean pulled him back to the hospital bed. Bobby stood by the chairs, soot-covered, holding a bag and two large coffees.

Sam let out a _huff_ as he was plunked on the mattress. "Geez, I'm banged up, not dying."

"Well, I can't be too careful these days," grumped Dean. Sam realized the deep circles under his brother's eyes. "For all I knew, Lucifer had you out ghost driving the car again, puttin' all kinds of shit in your head."

"Dean, I'm sorry…"

"Sorry's not going to cut it this time, Sammy. I need you to explain what's going on with that cracked egg of yours."

_My head…?_ Sam's head was really starting to bother him. Every facial movement hurt. "Dean, I don't know how to explain it. I thought I was with you! He completely took me for a ride, man! I don't know what to about that—I can't predict it, I can't control it, damnit it's getting too hard!" Unexpected, angry tears welled up, tried to squeeze out of his swollen, gauze-covered eye. The healing gash in his face started to sting.

Whatever Dean expected, this wasn't it. Both he and Bobby just stared for a minute.

"He said…he said it stops when I can't take it anymore. What am I supposed to do?" The words were so broken and pleading. "W-What am I supposed to do?"

Something finally cracked in Dean's shell of confusion and indignation. His little brother sat there, half his face padded in bandages. Sam was exposed, raw, and terrified. And right. What _were_ you supposed to do when the enemy was in your head? So Dean did what he always did, protect. He sat on the bed and cradled Sam like they were nine and five again. This was just another nightmare. Dean would find a way to make it better.

"It's okay, Sammy…it's okay…we'll end this, but not with weapons, alright?"

Uninjured cheek buried in Dean's flannel, Sam nodded. A soft knock sounded at the door. After a moment, Bobby's doctor friend entered.

"Janelle said there was shouting in here; everything okay?" Gentle brown eyes surveyed the odd little scene. Bobby was the first to find his voice.

"Yeah, I think so. We were sorting out a few things about last night," he explained gruffly. "And beggin' yer professional pardon, he shouldn't be any more trouble. We really should be getting scarce."

She cracked a sad smile. "You hunters are always trouble, one way or another. But I don't pretend to understand everything you do. I just know someone has to do it. Take care of each other. I'll be back with the discharge paperwork."

"Thanks," croaked Dean. He still held Sam as if the younger man was about to break into pieces. Silence reigned in the wake of all the turbulence. Then the doctor's pager went off. She read it, apparently had to re-read it, and her expression darkened.

"The front desk received a call—police at Sioux Falls General. Said they have an attack victim claiming to have seen the perpetrators heading for our facility, three men, one of them hurt. They want us to hold all patients and visitors until they can get here…I know I probably shouldn't ask, but what did you get into?"

"Aww, hell," cursed Bobby. "You get them back on the phone, tell them the only people matching that description left ten minutes ago in a classic black car. We'll lay a false trail so they don't come bustin' in here. These are some nasty sons of bitches."

The doctor flinched slightly at the swearing. "You sure you'll be okay? Sam's not exactly ready for a fight—"

"He's gonna be heading in the opposite direction. I'll drive the Impala, and Dean'll take Sam in my car."

"Hey, nobody's using my baby as a decoy—" Dean started. Bobby cuffed him around the ears.

"We don't have much of a choice, idjit. These things mean business, and if we're going to get ahead of them, we gotta buy time. Don't worry, I'll stow 'er somewhere safe. They're more interested in you, anyways, so I doubt they'll touch 'er if she's empty."

"He's right," chimed the doctor. "Between whatever the situation is and Sam's condition, your lives aren't worth keeping a car, no matter how special it is." She hurried to make that phone call.

Dean had to restrain himself inwardly to not chew the both of them out for blaspheming the Impala. Beside him, Sam winced and held his head against all the added noise. They were right, of course. The leviathans were more than enough trouble when everyone was at full capacity. Sam didn't need the stress or the physical rigors of hunting and fighting. "Fine. We'll get what we need out of the trunk and bail. But I don't have to like it."

Bobby rolled his eyes, getting a glass of water for Sam in order to keep himself from railing back. The younger Winchester accepted the drink gratefully. He seemed a little less tense. After a long awkward silence, Bobby moved toward the door.

"I'm gonna go ahead and start transferring equipment out of the Impala. Don't lose your head again, I parked in a way so as not to broadcast our possessions to the world. You get Sam ready to roll."

Sam watched their surrogate uncle/father stride out, and returned to not quite making eye contact with Dean. "Hey, listen…thanks. Thanks for finding me."

"It's my job," scoffed Dean.

"Dean, I'm 28. I've screwed up so many times, in so many crucial ways, I wouldn't blame anyone for not wanting anything to do with me, if not worse. I spend a lot of time wondering if it would be so bad to let something kill me off for good."

Dean's gaze was steady, practical. "You're my brother, Sam. Always have been, always will be. How can I claim that unless I'm willing to do anything and more to save your ass?"

Sam tried to smile with only the left side of his face. The result was comical, but honest.

"We'll get through this, just like anything else this crummy universe has thrown at us."

Forty minutes later, they were headed out to Bobby's old Chevelle. Bobby himself had gone with the Impala about ten minutes earlier. The plan was for him to lay a trail to look like they went for the woods close to the salvage yard, and Sheriff Mills would pick him up for 'trespassing,' if anyone saw him emerge. She would then get him to the car Dean had left at the warehouse.

Meanwhile, the Winchesters would make for the rendezvous point—an old cabin of Rufus' near the border with Montana. It was complicated, but no more risky than any other action they might take. They weren't dealing with any ordinary creature. The more lost they could get, the better.

"Head hangin' in there, Sam?" Dean asked as he put the key in the ignition. Sam still had patches of gauze on his face, and he was a little woozy from the last dose of morphine they had given him. He clutched prescription med slips in his right hand.

"Yeah, I'm good. No Lucifer, no Hell, no pain as long as I don't move my face."

"Good. Maybe I'll make it a couple hours without you nagging me like an old lady."

"Jerk."

"Bitch."

They couldn't help smiling, however, pulling out onto the open road. The day was sunny but not too hot. They had a full tank of gas, a twelve-pack of beer on the back seat, and each other. Screw the leviathans. Screw the chaos of the supernatural civil war. Screw everything but what mattered most at this moment. They could take it on.


End file.
